


Taste What's On the Table

by singularthey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singularthey/pseuds/singularthey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the moment, they have no time for things like beds or undressing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste What's On the Table

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a porn fairy thread at [the Sherlock rant meme](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/10091.html?thread=82970987#t82970987):
>
>> Sherlock/John, post-case adrenaline--Sherlock is sprawled on his back on the kitchen table (pushing science equipment out of the way is a plus) and John mouths Sherlock's cock through his trousers. Sherlock comes in his pants.
> 
> This was written pre-S3.

John couldn't say what it was about the case that did it. It might've been the lack of actual bodies, which had left Sherlock disappointed, but it wasn't the first time that had happened; it might've been the way the rain had left Sherlock's hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes clinging to him like a second, slightly transparent skin. It didn't really matter, in the end. All that mattered was pushing Sherlock against the door to their flat and kissing the surprise off his face.

There was no time then for silly things like closing doors and getting to a bed. Sherlock had tried to pull him along, to steer him to his own room, but he was just busy enough trying to memorise the inside of John's teeth with his tongue that he didn't protest the way John shoved him into the kitchen, stumbling along as their legs tangled up in one another until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the table.

The detritus of Sherlock's latest experiments and examinations hindered them only momentarily: as John wondered how fast they could safely move all of his equipment elsewhere, and how they could manage it without ever losing contact, Sherlock half-turned, sweeping his arm across the table. Slides and petri dishes clattered to the floor, several of them breaking on impact, and once the microscope was pushed to the far edge without toppling, he settled back onto its surface, hooking one leg around John's thigh and pulling him down by his hair to ravish his mouth again.

Their clothes had begun to dry, but there was still enough dampness to them for the fabric to drag, to stick to skin and leave a clear outline of what they might have hidden before. John mouthed at one of Sherlock's nipples as he travelled down his body, teasing with his tongue before moving on. He let his thumb rest in the dip just above Sherlock's hip, his other hand grasping a thigh and urging him further onto the table.

The fingers in his hair clenched as he breathed hotly over Sherlock's erection, and he could feel tremors running through him. Up close, he could properly appreciate the way the material of his trousers enveloped him; under normal circumstances they were unassumingly stylish ( _sexy_ , John's mind supplied), but when wet they hid nothing. He had a mind to peel them off, to see Sherlock's cock before him without any barriers, but he just wanted a taste first, just like that.

Despite the barrier, Sherlock's cock jerked the moment John's tongue met its head, a burst of bitter warmth bleeding through. Emboldened, he mouthed down the shaft as far as he could, pressing his tongue hard against it as he drew back up.

"Fuck," Sherlock breathed, rolling his hips. The sound of it sent a jolt down John's spine, right on through to his cock.

"Yeah," he agreed, and opened his mouth wide, covering as much of Sherlock's clothed erection as he could, wrapping his tongue around the head and slowly drawing back, sucking as best he could manage. With only the head in his mouth, he swiped the tip of his tongue over the slit, and Sherlock's hands tightened in his hair until it hurt, his back arching.

" _Christ_ , John."

John pulled back, immediately missing the weight and heat of him. "What do you want?"

Sherlock raised his head, glaring down his body at him. "Suck me."

John chuckled. "I am. Don't know how you missed it." Before Sherlock could reply, he bent his head again, bracing himself with one elbow on the table, the other holding Sherlock's cock through his trousers, and covered him with his mouth again. The material had grown warm between his tongue and Sherlock's skin, and with saliva keeping it damp, he could almost imagine what it would be like to go down on him without anything in the way.

He thought about just reaching up, undoing Sherlock's belt and fly, and getting to it, but as he bobbed, he tasted another burst of precome. Sherlock swore, soon blending it into a stream of nonsensical murmurs, and pressed John's head to his groin, taking the decision away from him; John didn't mind, unexpectedly turned on by the forcefulness of it, and kept happily licking and sucking at him with the thought that he would get to his belt in just a moment, just another, and another—

"Shit!" was all the warning Sherlock gave before the distinctive taste of come spread through Sherlock's pants and trousers, his hips straining up. John moaned at the taste of it, licking and sucking it out of the fabric until Sherlock pulled on his hair again, bending his neck back and away from his sensitive cock.

They stared at each other like that a moment, Sherlock gasping for breath, John fighting to keep from thrusting into empty air. He relished that moment, the utterly unguarded look on Sherlock's face, and tried to commit it to memory.

The moment passed, and as Sherlock hauled him up onto the table with him, John decided to see just how long it would take before he could get Sherlock to look like that again, this time without anything in the way.


End file.
